


You've got this! And we've got you!

by KyberHearts_And_StardustSouls



Category: Marvel, Marvel AU - Fandom, Marvel Alternative Universe
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Illness, Other, cuss words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14259135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts_And_StardustSouls/pseuds/KyberHearts_And_StardustSouls
Summary: Reader is diagnosed with cancer. Bucky and Steve take care of her.





	You've got this! And we've got you!

**Author's Note:**

> _Authors note: As you guys now, I'm fighting my own battle right now. I needed to write this piece. Get it off my chest because it's in part how I've been and still am feeling. So this was more for myself than the fandom in particular. But it's been floating in my head for a while. What would Steve and Bucky do if one of their best friends got sick? This is also not my best writing. I wrote a rough draft, did a rough edit, but I'm just going to throw it out there. My time is limited with me heading to the hospital very soon (tomorrow, in fact). Still, let me know what you think. And I'm sorry for any tears this may cause!_

_“There’s no easy way to say this, ... it’s cancer.”_  
   
Cancer.   
   
That word would hit anyone like an oncoming train. Send anyone’s brain into a frenzy of “what if” thoughts and “how the hell did this happen” questions.  
   
It’s funny though. For you, that word had cued other things that day.   
You’d expected some massive wave crashing over you; some obliterating force consuming your every thought with "what", “when”, “how”, and “why”.   
Even the possibility of parallel universe would’ve been a reasonable notion to think about.  
   
Breakdown?   
Angry tears?   
Trembling?  
Yelling?  
None of that had happened.   
Instead, you’d sat stoic, your shopping list on replay, and whether or not you’d remembered to switch off the coffee machine that particular morning.   
   
At least it hadn’t been some stranger delivering the news. Although, in retrospect, you wish it had been. That sudden sadness and pity behind Banner’s eyes had been exactly what you’d been trying to avoid. Even his voice had been laced like that. Tinged with that “I’m so sorry” heaviness. Like the diagnosis had been his fucking fault somehow.  
   
Of course you knew, and still know, that it hadn’t been. To this day you feel bad about that spike of anger at his caring nature. Banner wasn’t just some random M.D. you’d picked to run the tests. Like many of the Avengers, he’s always been and always shall be a friend. “The only doctor, I’d trust with my life.” You’d actually said at some point while waiting for results. Truth be told, those sad eyes had been better coming from a friend. A stranger would've likely used a rehearsed script. With Bruce, at least, you'd gotten genuine sympathy. Compassion, actually.  
   
It’s weird though, how your memories from that day are just flashes of images and occasional words. Some clearer than others.  
   
Bruce’s tightly knit brows are one of those “clear as fucking crystal” memories. The memory just as ingrained as the 2014 World Cup results. (Germany 1 - Argentina 0. Mario Götze scoring the winning goal. In overtime of all things. How the fuck did he ever pull that off?)  
And so is you thinking that brows like that are traitors to the pity-filled smile that only ever comes with bad news.  
You even remember the word cancer. Who the fuck would forget a word like that anyways?  
   
And then...  
   
_Milk._  
_Eggs._  
_Bread._  
_Cucumbers to make tzatziki._  
_Definitely Greek yogurt._  
_And the coffee machine? - Off._  
   
Good thing your two best friends had accompanied you that day.   
Of course, you had hoped your suspicions to be wrong up until that very moment. Wishful thinking. Hopeful glimmer. In fact, you are sure that if you had been wrong that day, Bucky, Steve, and you would’ve laughed it off with a night at a bar close by; them taking turns dancing with you like it’s 1941. Proper, with a feathered kiss on the hand, and twirled, maybe even dipped elegance. Sometimes, that parallel universe still invades your mind. How lovely it would've been to be nothing and dance the night away.  
   
But your gut had held on to worst case scenario. You knew - _just knew_ \- what the diagnosis would be. It hadn’t been so much the symptoms. Those had been a mixed bag. Fatigue. On-going low-grade fever. Headaches that seemed to wane with caffeine. Some days worse than others. Some days better. But never 100%. Like a lingering flu you couldn’t quite shake. But all that could’ve been a slew of things. A combination of coincidences. A collection of long hours, little sleep, and not enough self-care. Especially nutrition wise.  
   
So, you knowing that something was wrong hadn’t been just the symptoms themselves. It had been that and this gut instinct of “something feels off balance and it’s deeper than what the symptoms show”.   
Maybe that’s why your brain had gone into this oddball mode. Because deep down you’d already known what the answer would be. All you had needed, really, was confirmation. And confirmation was exactly what had been delivered; with sorrow filled eyes and a pity-filled smile.  
   
It's a good thing your two best friends had accompanied you that day. Sure, it was a bit odd to take someone along who wasn’t family. But chaperones were allowed. And since you didn’t have family left, you’d decided on the two most obvious choices. Your pals, your buddies, your BFFs: Bucky and Steve. A good choice, as it had turned out.  
Because, while you definitely remember seeing Dr. Banner’s mouth move, none of the words had processed that day. At least nothing past “cancer”.   
He’d talked but all you’d been able to hear was your own mind on repeat:  
   
_Milk._  
_Eggs._  
_Bread._  
_Cucumbers to make tzatziki._  
_Definitely Greek yogurt._  
_And the coffee machine? - Off._  
_Oh.... and lemons._  
   
It's a good thing your friends had come along because while you had sat likely with a //deer caught in the headlights// kind of expression, your friends had done what you somehow couldn’t: ask questions. While you had sat with the shopping list on repeat...  
   
_Dill! Dill was the thing you’d forgotten that day. No wonder the tzatziki tasted off. Just fucking awful._  
   
Cue the filler here. The questions that had been asked and repeated to you at some later point that day.  
   
_“So what does this mean?”_  
_“How advanced we talkin’, Banner?”_  
_“Will Y/N need surgery?”_  
_“Radiation?”_  
_“Chemo?”_  
_“What’s the next step?”_  
_“How long will all this take?”_  
_“What’s the survival rate?”_  
   
The questions from that day are still like wind carried whispers in your memory. (And so are the answers.) Even though your friends had filled you in later on. That fog is peculiar to you. You distinctively remember the warmth that had curled around both your hands. Bucky had held your left and Steve your right. You remember the reassuring squeezes AND the tensed grasps whenever they hadn’t quite understood one of the many medical terms thrown their way.   
   
But words...actual spoken words had been like wind carried whispers. Distant. Intermingled. Almost indistinguishable. So it was good that they’d come along because while you had sat with the shopping list on repeat, they’d already started fleshing out a plan.   
Step one.  
Step two.   
Step three.   
Four. Five. Six.   
Seven through ten.  
**_The motherfucking finish line._**  
   
_“One thing after another. I understand once a diagnosis is made, people tend to want to move fast but we do need to be more thorough. Make sure we catch everything in one go. We’ll do another scan first.”_  
_“What kind of scan?”_  
_“A PET scan.”_  
_“A what scan?”_  
_“A positron emission tomography. We’ll use tracers to evaluate how far the cancer has actually spread and...”_  
_“Is it painful?”_  
_“No. It’s not without risks of course. Allergic reaction to the contrast. But generally, it’s like a CT scan, but more precise. Since Y/N didn’t have any adverse reactions to contrast during the other scans, I’m confident she’ll be ok.”_  
_“Ok. So how fast can that be scheduled?”_  
_“Well. There’s some fasting involved. No sugars. No caffeine. Minimum of twenty-four hours. But I’d prefer forty-eight. I’ll give you a full list of things to avoid eating. Also reduced movement. No PT. So, three days from now would be the earliest.”_  
_“And how long until results?”_  
_“Couple of days. By then, I should have an idea how best to proceed. I’ll call around. Put together a care team. We’ll get the best of the best on this. And if Y/N doesn’t object, I’d like to get Strange in on this, too. As neurologist, he’ll be able to tell me if she’ll need nerve grafts.”_  
_“You hear that, Doll? Best of the best. You've got this! And we've got you!”_  
   
There’d been a nod. An automated response from you. But really all you had been able to focus on was:  
   
_Milk._  
_Eggs._  
_Bread._  
_Cucumbers to make tzatziki._  
_Definitely Greek yogurt._  
_And the coffee machine? - Off._  
_Oh.... and lemons._  
_(And damn that you’d forgotten the dill that day! That would’ve been the best fucking tzatziki ever if it hadn’t been for the missing dill!)_  
   
It's been six months since then.   
Six long months of scans and biopsies.   
Tests.   
Tests.   
Tests.   
One very long and complicated surgery.   
More tests.   
Another surgery.   
Recovery to let incisions heal.   
Radiation.   
   
And through it all, they've been by your side. Your pals, your buddies, your two best friends: Bucky and Steve.   
   
You shake your head. Their stubbornness to nudge you to do this and that is only overshadowed by their kindness thus far. And sometimes you aren't sure if you want to scream at them for their overbearing nature or thank whoever that they’re part of your life.   
   
The others at the compound, of course, cared, too. And still care. In fact, when word had first gotten out _-despite request to keep it under the radar until a treatment plan had been set up_ -, Stark had been first in line to lend a hand.  
   
_“You can move in. Plenty of room. We’ll take care of you. Just, please... no coffee grounds in the disposal.”_  
_“Mister Stark...”_  
_“Tony!”_  
_Semi annoyed sigh. “Tony. I appreciate the gesture. But I really prefer to keep my apartment in town.”_  
_“And what happens when you have surgery? More precisely when you go home? Who will take care of you? I know this sucks. Not saying you can’t handle yourself. But you cannot do this on your own.”_  
_“It’s not about who’ll help me. I’ve already got Bucky and Steve hovering like I could break any second. I just... I need to retain some independence. Moving in here. I can’t. Not to mention everyone looks at me like I’m going to drop fucking dead any second. I mean shit, Wanda's been crying every time she sees me. And Vision... Don't get me started on Vision. The only one who doesn't handle me like glass is Sam. I'll take his smartassery over THOSE looks any day. I can handle them a few hours a day, but twenty-four seven. Not a chance.”_  
_“Ok... Then how about moving closer to here? I’ll have someone look for a place. And as for work. You can take off as long...”_  
_“Is that a hint or a make it so? Because no way in fucking hell will I stop working! Not while I still have some dignity left!”_  
_“It’s a suggestion.”_  
_“Good, because if I can’t work I will go insane.”_  
_“Hmmm...”_  
_“Tony!”_  
_“Just saying. It’s ok to dial back. Focus on your health. No one will be upset IF you take time off.”_  
_Incoherent grumbles._  
_“Let’s do one day at a time. Now, about that apartment. There’s a place not even five minutes from here. Look, it’s got a view onto the compound...”_  
_“Tony!”_  
_“Y/N!”_  
   
Naturally, there’d been no backing off on Tony’s part. That’s his thing, and sometimes you wonder how Pepper puts up with him. That push till cave. Clearly, Pepper is immune. You, not so much because not even a week after that conversation, you had stood on the threshold of your newly furnished apartment. Ground level. Easy access. Two bedrooms?   
   
_“Tony, I thought I said a one bedroom! You even agreed!”_  
_“Well yeah. But what if you have guests?”_  
_“While I’m sick?”_  
_“Or when you’re healthy again.”_  
_"And what's with all the furniture. I have stuff."_  
_"Yes, but this is nicer stuff. And look the sofa has movie seats. Super comfortable in case you fall asleep while watching TV. And look, the fridge tells you when you run out of things you need. The medical cabinet does the same, by the way..."_  
_"TONY!"_  
_"[Y/N]!"_  
   
You knew there’d been a greater plan to this than Tony had let on verbally. That damn trained wink of his had given him away like that. And that damn nonchalant timbre of his voice. Not like you had had much of a choice in that moment. You'd already canceled the agreement to your old place. Fuck his trickery.  
   
Confirmation of your suspicion for that spare bedroom had come in the form of Bucky. He showed up one evening with an excuse that he’d ordered pizza but didn’t have anyone to share it with because everyone was busy. He’d even brought some movies. Of course, you knew it was more than pizza and movies. Really, it was all a ploy to 

a) get you to eat and   
b) check in on you. (And   
c) if he’d been too tired to walk back to his room right across the greens of your new place, to let him sleep in the spare bedroom and probably have him make breakfast the following morning. But it hadn’t come to that. At least not yet. Not on that first night he'd just showed up.)  
   
Steve naturally had followed that stint a few days later, with him having grabbed the wrong movie when shopping but - _surprise, surprise_ \- it had happened to be a movie he knew you loved. So why not gift it to you. Along with the extra milkshake because - _surprise surprise again-_ it had been 2-for-1 day at his favorite coffee shop and once again, there'd been no one around to share with. (What-the-fucking-ever! You knew that even the whisper of an extra milkshake from Dameron and Friends would have had a few people flocking.)  
   
Soon, this drop by whenever thing became more than every other day. The excuses, too, became more elaborate. Sometimes they came with an “I need help solving this puzzle” toothy smile, and sometimes with a “let's play checkers” puppy dog look. Always self-invited. Always prepared so you couldn’t really turn them down. And while you'd rolled your eyes plenty of times, you had to admit, you were glad they were around.  
   
Not just Bucky and Steve either. Nat, Clint, Wanda, Bruce, Sam, even Poe from Dameron and Friends, all showed up one time or another. You were glad because as time progressed, your ability to focus to do day to day things decreased while fatigue and pain increased. You could almost feel the cancer eating you alive from within. Millimeter by millimeter. An invisible force that stripped you slowly of your strength and will to give a shit about anything or anyone.   
   
How important everyone’s friendship truly was, became clear when you started radiation.  
The surgeries had already tested your limits. During the day, post hospital stay, a nurse had been present to help. In the evenings, it had been Bucky and Steve. And whenever they had been away, someone else from the compound was around. But they never stayed. Only tucked you in, constant reminders that they were but a phone call away.  
   
Radiation was a whole different animal, though. In the beginning, it wasn’t that bad. In fact, you felt fairly good the first two weeks. But then week three hit, and as had been explained by your radiation oncologist, you started feeling your strength slip away. Getting out of bed in the morning became a chore. Taking a shower became a chore. Eating. Drinking water. Brushing your teeth. Chore. Chore. Chore.   
   
But your pride always got the better of you. Still not quite willing to ask for help. Independence was important. So they never stayed.  
But then, one morning, about the fifth week in of seven, the frantic banging on your apartment’s door rattled you awake. And when you’d finally dragged your tired body to see who the fuck had dared to interrupt your sleep, you were met with the most concerned sets of blues you’d ever seen.  
   
_“Y/N, what happened? Your doctor called. He said you missed the appointment.” Bucky's voice pitched, his chest expanding widely in panicked breaths._  
_“Y/N, you alright?" Fingers over your forehead and Steve’s face twisted into deeper concern. It takes a lot to make him show his true age. Dude is like 100 years old. This was definitely one of those moments. “You feel warm. Have you been drinking water?”_  
_“I think we should just take her to the clinic, Steve.”_  
_“I think you’re right, Bucky.”_  
   
You hadn’t had the strength to protest that day. Bucky simply collected your ever-thinning frame into his arms while Steve opened the door to the SUV, and off you'd been. You could’ve sworn Steve, the ever good American ~~boy~~ man, had broken a few traffic laws that day. But that was and remains a blur.  
   
After that, a simple dropping by whenever didn't seem enough for either. It became a taking turn kind of thing when they weren’t on missions. From nights of holding your hair whenever your stomach got the better of you and making cold compresses for your head and neck, to mornings of watching you drink one glass of water before getting out of bed and another while eating breakfast, however minuscule. The fact that one or the other had started staying over in the guest room was but a footnote in your memory. There’d even been nights when both would stay, one taking the sofa, the other the spare bedroom.  
   
Even when radiation had ended, they decided to stick around. “Because Bruce said that some radiation symptoms don’t show up until some time after.” Bucky had explained after another protest of yours.   
   
And today... Today you are glad they’d insisted to stick around because today is one of those days you can feel the after effects of radiation hitting you hard. You’d tried your best to keep up, but after another “what?” Tony ordered you to “Get the fuck out and go rest! Don’t make me call them, Y/N! You know that I will! I will! Got the finger on the button.”  
"Alright, alright. Fucking hell, Tony! Back the fuck off."  
"We love you, too."  
   
Today had been shitty for sure. But it hadn't just been the after effects. It was that and memories. Why the fuck is that shopping list on replay again?  
At least Tony let you walk home alone. Not like it's far anyways. Right across the greens of the compound. And knowing Stark, he has you watched by none other than F.R.I.D.A.Y. At least until he is sure you've made it to your apartment. RIGHT ACROSS THE GREENS OF THE COMPOUND. Thank Tony for that trickery.  
   
So now you stand slumped in front of your apartment door, ready to turn the keys when Bucky beats you to the chase and opens the door.   
“Let me guess, Tony called.” You grumble.  
“He sure did, Doll. Come on. Steve’s already in the kitchen.”  
You scoff. Of course, he is!  
   
Bucky takes your messenger bag and the keys and nudges you to the kitchen. It’s not even subtle. A firm, metal hand pushes on your lower back.   
The sound of you two entering draws Steve’s attention and you can’t help a bit of a mocked chuckle at him wearing an apron over his civilian work clothes. “Hey, Y/N. Making chicken soup and tea. Go and take a bath, and Bucky will prep your bed.”   
“I don’t feel like a bath.”  
“A shower then.”  
   
You sigh. Why are they like this?   
You shake your head and take off to your bedroom, Bucky trailing closely behind.   
“Let me help you with your boots.” He nudges you to sit on the edge of the bed and you roll your eyes.  
“I’m still quite capable, Bucky!”  
“Yes. But you look tired. Let us take care of you, hmmmm.” Bucky doesn’t back off. He unlaces your boots and pulls them off. Socks, too.  
   
Then his hands work away your hoodie and the shirt underneath. To an outsider, that may look odd. Maybe romantic. To you, this is just normal routine. At the height of radiation treatment, it had become a normal thing to help you change out of your clothes and into pajamas. Sometimes they'd even help you take a bath, but usually only after you’d stepped into the tub and were covered in enough bubbles to hide whatever you'd wanted to hide. So Bucky helping you out of your clothes isn’t strange to you.  
   
He does stop at your underwear though, granting a gentle nod.   
“Do you think, I’m still pretty?” You ask unexpectedly.   
“What? Of course, I do, Doll. You’re one of the prettiest girls.” He smiles.  
“One of?”  
Bucky laughs at your perked brow. “The prettiest.” He kisses the tip of your nose. “Why do you ask, Doll?”  
“Because of these.” You point to the surgery scars and you see Bucky heave a breath. “And soon, I won’t have any hair.”  
“Doll... you’re pretty. Always. Now go, take shower. I’ll be right here. So if you need me, yell.” Bucky stuffs some fresh PJs into your arms and you make your way to the bathroom at last.  
   
The shower turns into a much longer affair. Your mind replaying the last six months, yet again. Lost trance of “why”, “how”, “what if”.    
_Why me?_  
_How did this happen?_  
_What if I can’t handle the next step?_  
“Doll. You ok in there?” Bucky’s voice carries concern.  
“Yes. Just finishing up.” You chuckle lightly.   
   
Another ten minutes and you finally reappear in the bedroom, staring at the sight. The bed is prepped. On your nightstand rests a tray with a bowl of chicken soup and a mug with some peppermint tea. The TV is already on, the Netflix logo flickering across. But that’s not what holds your attention.  
   
What holds your attention are the two super soldiers in soft PJs and fuzzy socks waiting for you on your bed. One on each side, the center vacant for you.   
That is new, and you raise a confused brow.  
“Not what you think, Sweetheart.” Steve’s smile is so damn bashful you can’t help but laugh.  
“Come on, Doll. Snuggle time.” Bucky is way more confident with that sly smirk.  
“Right. Snuggle time.” You hesitate.  
   
“Y/N. Come on. It really is just that. Also, you need to eat.” Steve motions to the tray and you, at last, crawl onto the bed, back resting flush against the headboard. “Just in time. Soup is the perfect temperature. Eat.” Steve pushes the tray on top of your legs.  
Hunger is the last thing on your mind, but you know Steve is right. You have to eat. You have to because soon eating will become a chore again. And you’ve already lost more weight than anticipated. And the one thing you don't fucking want is a feeding tube down your nose.  
   
“This is good.” You smile as you slowly sip away some broth.  
“Right. Peggy taught me.” Steve smiles.  
“I see. She wasn’t just a kick-ass agent, huh?”  
“Definitely!”  
   
To your surprise, you finish the whole bowl. Then the tea. All while watching your favorite show on Netflix.  
“One more episode?” Bucky’s finger hovers over the button to continue.  
“Sure.”   
   
Before long, the three of you lay snuggled in each other’s arms. Steve with his back against the headboard, your head nestled on Steve’s chest, Bucky curled around you, his head on your side, with a pillow propped against to keep off pressure, and metal arm curled over your hips.  
   
You’re nearly asleep when you feel Steve reach for the remote to turn off the TV.   
You glance up, and he smiles at you reassuringly. “What’s on your mind, Sweetheart?”  
“I’m scared.” You whisper before your head falls back onto Steve’s chest.  
You can feel Bucky's metal arm tense around you. He kisses your shoulder and pushes a breath through his nose. “Of what, Doll?”  
“Chemo.”  
   
Silence.  
Steve traces a line down your arm and Bucky kisses your shoulder again.  
“We know Sweetheart. But we’re here. Always.”  
“I know.”  
“We’ll take care of you, Doll. You’ve got this. And we've got you.”  
“I know.”  
Silence again.  
“Steve?”  
“Yes, Sweetheart.”  
“Bucky?”  
“Yes, Doll.”  
“I love you guys.”  
“We love you, too.”  
 


End file.
